


Confess

by SleepsWithCoyotes



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Begging, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-04-12 01:24:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19121767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepsWithCoyotes/pseuds/SleepsWithCoyotes
Summary: A smirking demon is rarely a good sign.





	Confess

**Author's Note:**

> Old, old bookverse stuff I'm finally getting around to pulling off my old site.

There was no reason why the image of a smirking demon shouldn't give him the urge to smite. It was an almost incontrovertible fact that a smirk on a demon meant that a wile was either being plotted or carried out(1), and the entire point of his existence was to thwart wiles. And something in there about praising God and loving mankind, but never mind all that. The sight of Crowley smirking at him from far too close really ought to have triggered at least an _ambivialence_ to smite if perhaps 'urge' was too strong a word, but he could barely summon up a 'maybe Sunday after the crossword's finished, if the weather's not too bad.' 

It likely had something to do with the fact that Crowley had him sprawled over the couch in the back room, was hovering dark and sleek and fully-dressed over him, and Aziraphale was making rather a mess of his trousers. Crowley's trousers, that was. His own were nowhere to be found(2).

"Really, my dear," he managed before Crowley sort of...slithered against him. Again. It was a maneuver that really required a serpent's spine to achieve, a certain roll of the hips that started at a point that didn't really exist unless one was used to ignoring the phantom tingles of a phantom tail, so that by the time it reached the pelvis, the roll had become an undulation that was illegal at best, blasphemous at worst. Aziraphale whimpered and tried to collect his thoughts. "Yes, that's...quite. Er, nice. But listen--"

"Yes, angel?" Crowley purred against his neck, the tip of his tongue doing alarming things all the way up to his ear. "Something the matter?"

"Ah," he started, and middled, and eventually ended. He knew Crowley had just asked him a question, but he simply couldn't focus past everything else Crowley was doing to him to remember what it was. "Crowley...."

"Yes?"

"Don't you...?" He blushed, tongue tangling on the words, and slid his hands down Crowley's back in a wordless plea.

"Hm?"

Oh, Go--Sa-- _bugger._ Crowley couldn't mean to make him _beg,_ could he?

"Crowley!" He'd meant it as a warning, but surely it'd come out desperate enough to count.

"Right here, angel. Did you want something?"

Crowley left his ear alone long enough to lift his head, yellow eyes peering down at him, the thin slits of his pupils stretched to wide, hungry almonds. The feel of his immaculate suit against Aziraphale's bare skin was distracting to say the least, and Aziraphale squirmed, rocking his own hips up to press the length of his erection into the hollow of Crowley's lean hip.

"You're not going to make me say it," he protested, but it was less a challenge than a groan of dismay.

"What? I thought your side was big on confession."

"It's not-- _hn_ \--not about _sides,_ Crowley...."

"No. It's about you giving me what I want."

He was starting to get ambivalent about the smiting thing again, and not a little bit worried. It was probably just paranoia, he was sure, but still. What a perfectly...demonic thing to say.

Just as he was tensing to push the demon back, Crowley's smirk softened, eyes dropping slowly to Aziraphale's mouth. "I like hearing you," he said, tongue-tip flicking out to feather very softly against Aziraphale's lips. "I like hearing what you want."

He liked hearing, Aziraphale was suddenly sure, that what Aziraphale wanted was _him._

"Please," he said, voice half-strangled, mostly breath. "Can you...I want to feel you. Your skin," he moaned, and just like that, he had the whole long, lean shape pressed against him, suit banished at a thought. His back was cool under Aziraphale's hands, but wherever they touched, the demon was warm, soaking up Aziraphale's heat greedily. "Touch me," he said against Crowley's shoulder, hiding his flushed face even as his hands were curling tighter. "Please. I...want you, Crowley. I w-want you to--"

Crowley kissed him then, hard and hungry, until they both forgot they needed breath(3). The rest was understood.

***

1\. Or, in Crowley's case, admired, as some of Aziraphale's unconscious wiles were quite as good as his own conscious ones. He was less sanguine over the fact that his own knee-jerk thwarting could occasionally out-benevolence even Aziraphale at his best, but a thousand years of job-sharing did tend to be habit-forming.

2\. Literally. Crowley had miracled them out of existence, and would later be annoyed to realize that they were one of the only pairs of Aziraphale's trousers he didn't mind being seen in public with.

3\. They didn't.


End file.
